PRYVT songs x ENHYPEN [OT7]
Heeseung - WITHER&DIE
The last of summer heat pressed against the windows, but inside, Heeseung felt nothing. Not warmth, not cold; just the heavy emptiness that sits when something once bright drains away.
You hadn’t noticed it at first. Or maybe you had, but neither of you spoke it aloud. The silent drift had begun long before it became apparent. Like slow erosion, almost imperceptible at first, until one day you looked at him and realized he was a stranger wearing his face.
Heeseung stood on the balcony, mornings and evenings bleeding into one another, waiting for you to come back from somewhere he couldn’t name. It used to be simple: one-word text, small plans, shared coffee on lazy Sundays. Lately, it was only you slipping past without meeting his gaze.
Heeseung kept replaying every moment like a loop he couldn’t shut off.
That night in the hallway, your shoulders tight, your eyes avoiding his.
That night in the car, silence stretching longer than any argument you’d ever had.
That night in bed, when your back was to him, and neither of you tried to reach out.
Heeseung tried to articulate the pain—he tried so many times his lungs ached—but every time the words fell apart. “I don’t know what I want anymore,” you’d said once, and he felt that truth cut right through him.
Now he waited in the apartment you once filled with laughter. The city lights gleamed below like distant promises he could no longer chase. Memories clung to the corners: your phone charging on the kitchen counter, mugs with faded lipstick rings, the echo of your favourite playlist.
Heeseung touched the back of his hand to his heart, as if he could feel it and convince himself it was still beating.
His phone buzzed, your name flickering across the screen. He froze.
Hey.
No punctuation, no context, just the word that once made his heart lift.
He stared at it. He froze in the quiet apartment. He tried to breathe.
You weren’t coming back.
He knew it because the messages remained simple, hollow, distant; like you were speaking from far away, even when you were right beside him.
Heeseung typed something—something tender, something desperate—but then deleted it. You didn’t want solace. You wanted relief from the weight of him.
He couldn’t give that to you.
He gathered his things slowly, methodically. A jacket. A notebook filled with half-scribbled thoughts. A photo of the two of you—smiling, unburdened—and he stared at it long enough that it hurt.
He left a letter on the kitchen table.
Not an apology. Not to blame. Just an explanation written in ink that trembled more than he expected.
I loved you too much to let you suffer with me. I hope you find the peace I couldn’t give you here.
His footsteps didn’t echo when he walked out; the apartment swallowed them, like it knew it would be empty now.
Outside, the summer was fading; leaves whispering of colder days. Heeseung no longer felt the warmth. He didn’t feel the cold yet, either.
He only felt the ache left behind when something once alive slowly withers.
And the city carried on, unconcerned.
You come back when autumn has already stripped the city bare.
The air smells different now—sharper, thinner—like everything bright has already been taken away. You tell yourself you’re only here to collect what you left behind, but your steps slow as soon as the building comes into view. His building. The one you swore you wouldn’t return to.
The elevator ride is quiet. Too quiet. Every floor that passes feels like a countdown you’re not ready to finish.
When you reach his door, your hand hovers in the air. You don’t knock right away. You wonder if he’ll even answer. You wonder if he still lives here. You wonder if he’s already learned how to breathe without you.
You knock anyway.
Nothing.
You try again, softer this time, as if gentleness might undo what you broke.
The door opens—but not to Heeseung.
It’s an older woman from down the hall. She looks at you with mild curiosity, then recognition. “You’re looking for the boy who used to live here?”
Your chest tightens. Used to.
“He moved out weeks ago,” she continues. “Quiet kid. Always looked tired.”
The hallway tilts. You thank her, voice barely holding together, and step back before she can ask anything else.
You don’t know why you sit on the cold floor outside his door. You don’t know why you stay. Maybe you’re hoping for something impossible; that he’ll walk back in, hair damp from the rain, eyes soft like they used to be.
Instead, all you get is silence.
You unlock the door with the spare key you never returned.
Inside, the apartment is emptier than you remember. Too empty. The air feels wrong, like a place that hasn’t been lived in, only abandoned. No music playing. No lights left on. No warmth lingering in the corners.
You walk through slowly, touching things he forgot to take; a book he loved. A mug chipped at the rim. The couch where he used to fall asleep waiting for you.
On the kitchen table, there’s nothing now; but you remember where the letter used to sit.
You hadn’t read it that day. You were too sure of yourself. Too convinced you needed space more than him.
You find the letter later, folded and tucked into one of his notebooks. You recognize his handwriting immediately; neat, careful, like he was afraid of making mistakes even on paper.
Your hands shake as you read it.
By the time you reach the end, your vision blurs.
You sit on the floor and finally let yourself cry.
You regret the silence.
You regret the distance.
You regret every moment you chose uncertainty over him.
Most of all, you regret assuming he would stay.
You try calling him.
Straight to voicemail.
You send a message you rehearse ten times before pressing send.
I came back. I should’ve stayed. I’m sorry.
No reply.
Days pass. Then weeks.
You learn from mutual friends that he moved to another city. He stopped answering messages; he keeps them to himself now that he doesn’t talk about you.
You imagine him somewhere else, standing by another window, watching another season die. You wonder if he still waits for texts that never come. You wonder if loving you taught him how to leave quietly.
One night, months later, your phone buzzes.
It’s him.
Just one message.
I hope you’re okay.
Nothing else. No invitation. No opening.
You stare at the screen, heart breaking all over again.
You realize then that some love doesn’t end with anger, it ends with exhaustion. With two people wanting each other, but never at the same time.
You type a reply, hands trembling.
I miss you.
Three dots appear.
Then disappear.
That’s when you understand.
Heeseung loved you enough to let you go.
And you loved him too late.
Outside, winter settles in.
Jay - seem
Jay had always been the calm in the storm. Friendly. Grounded. The type of person who eased your breath with just a smile. But over the past few weeks, something had changed in him; small cracks at first, like hairline fractures you’d miss until the whole thing splintered.
He replayed every moment in his mind with painful precision.
The way you touched… the way that it felt… I’ll never forget the words that you left…
That winter night—no lights, just cold stars—he remembered how she’d wrapped her scarf around his neck, how he’d laughed when it tickled. He remembered every gesture of warmth. Every It’s okay when nothing was okay.
They said goodbye like you’d say it a thousand times before. Quietly. Without words that mattered.
But Jay heard the words, even if she never said them outright.
You told me you're all…
I know that you’ve tried…
Wish this was a lie… but knowing it’s not… It’s hurting me, dear.
He had given her everything, unfiltered, open, unashamed. But love wasn’t enough. Having your heart in someone’s hands doesn’t make them hold onto it.
He still replayed her smile in his head, unbidden and unbearable, like dizziness. Remembering it wasn’t comforting anymore. It was a wound that refused to close.
Cause nothing compares to the way that you smile and knowing that I’ll never get to see it again…
That was the unkindest line of all.
Now, Jay walked the quiet streets alone, under streetlamps with flickering light that looked too fragile to last. Every step felt heavier than the last, like gravity itself learned his name and decided to pull.
He passed a café where they’d shared late-night hot chocolates, where she’d playfully stolen fries off his plate. His breath caught in his throat, sharp and unyielding.
What he wouldn’t give to hear her voice again. Not for closure, but just once more. One last Hey. One last laugh. One last look that meant something more than goodbye.
But the truth settled in his chest like a stone.
She’s gone.
And she wasn’t coming back.
He sat on a cold bench, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He had loved her with everything he was, with every hidden corner he never showed the world. But love isn’t always reciprocated in the same fierce intensity.
Sometimes it slips through your fingers
and leaves you clutching air.
And when Jay finally stood up again—shaking, heart bruised beyond forgiveness—he knew this was the part that broke him the most:
Not losing her. But losing what she meant to him.
He whispered into the silence, more to convince himself than anyone else:
I’ll never find someone like you ever again.
Then he walked on, carrying her smile like a fracture in his soul, unseen, but undeniably there.
She never meant to leave him with silence.
But silence was the only thing she trusted herself not to ruin.
The first letter was written the night she left.
It sat folded in the bottom of her drawer, creased from being opened and closed too many times; ink smudged where her tears had blurred the words.
Jay, I don’t know how to say this without breaking something that can’t be fixed. I gave you my all. I swear I did. And that’s why this hurts so much.
She pressed the pen down harder than necessary, as if the paper deserved punishment for knowing too much.
You showed me love in ways I didn’t think I deserved. You looked at me like I was something precious, something worth fighting for. But the truth? 이런 나도 내가 싫은데… 넌 어떻겠니. If I can’t even love myself, how could I let you keep trying?
She folded the letter then, hands trembling, heart screaming at her to run back; to knock on his door, to let him pull her into his arms like he always did.
But she didn’t.
Because love wasn’t supposed to feel like guilt.
The second letter came weeks later.
Jay had posted a picture online, nothing special. Just a streetlight, dim and lonely. No caption.
She knew it was him without needing proof.
Jay, I saw the photo. I know that street. You always hated walking alone at night, remember? You said the quiet made your thoughts too loud.
Her chest ached as memories flooded in, him rambling to fill the silence, his laugh too bright for the darkness he pretended not to feel.
You touched me as I mattered. You listened like I was worth hearing. I tried. God, I tried. But every time you said you loved me, all I could think about was the day I’d disappoint you.
Her tears dripped onto the page.
The way you smile still ruins me. Knowing I’ll never be the reason for it again… that’s the punishment I chose.
She never sent it.
Because how cruel would it be, to remind him she still existed, when he was trying so hard to forget?
The last letter was written months later, on a day that felt too quiet to survive.
She heard his voice on the radio.
Not singing, just talking, laughing softly with someone else. He sounded older. Tired. Like someone who had learned how to carry pain without letting it show.
That hurt the most.
Jay, You seem okay now. And I hate myself for being relieved.
Her hands shook as she wrote the final lines.
I hope someone loves you without fear. Without doubt. Without running away. I hope they look at you and stay.
She paused, breath hitching.
Nothing compares to the way you loved me. And that’s why I had to let you go.
She folded the letter carefully and placed it with the others, three confessions locked away in a drawer that would never open for him.
That night, Jay walked past her apartment without knowing it.
She watched from behind the curtain as he passed under the streetlight, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved into his pockets like he was still protecting something fragile.
Her heart screamed his name.
But she stayed silent.
Because some love stories don’t end with closure.
They end with two people learning how to live
while carrying the same ache
on opposite sides of the world.
And somewhere between unsent letters and unspoken apologies,
they both learned the same truth;
Loving each other had been real.
Keeping each other
was not.
Jake - tell me, will we survive?
“You’re still awake?”
Jake glanced at the clock on his phone. 2:47 a.m.
He hesitated before replying.
“Yeah.”
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
“Can I call you?”
He sat up in bed, back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. His room was dark except for the faint glow of city lights slipping through the curtains.
“Sure.”
Your name filled the screen, and before he could overthink it, he answered.
“Hey,” you said softly.
“Hey.”
There was a pause, one of those pauses that felt intentional, like both of you were standing at the edge of something neither wanted to name.
“You sound tired,” you said.
Jake let out a quiet laugh. “I always sound tired.”
“Still can’t sleep?”
“…Yeah.”
You didn’t ask why. You never did. That was part of the problem.
Outside, a car passed, tires hissing against wet pavement. Jake focused on the sound, grounding himself.
“You’re on my mind again,” you admitted suddenly, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know why nights are like this.”
Jake closed his eyes.
“They’re always like this,” he said. “When it’s quiet.”
Another pause.
“I was thinking,” you began, then stopped. “Never mind.”
“No,” he said quickly. “Tell me.”
You sighed. “Do you ever feel like we’re… stuck?”
His grip on the phone tightened. “Stuck how?”
“Like, we’re circling the same conversation, but we never actually say what we mean.”
Jake swallowed. His heart had been circling this moment for months.
“Yeah,” he said. “I feel that.”
You laughed softly, but it sounded sad. “Good. At least I’m not crazy.”
He wanted to tell you everything, then how every message from you felt like oxygen. How the word friend hurt more than silence. How he waited for you even when he pretended not to.
Instead, he said, “What are you thinking about?”
You hesitated. “Us.”
The word landed between you like a fragile thing.
“Jake,” you continued, “you know I care about you, right?”
His chest ached. “Yeah. I know.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
“But?” he asked quietly.
“But I don’t know what we are.”
The truth sat heavy on his tongue. “I know what I am.”
You didn’t respond right away.
“You’re my friend,” you finally said.
There it was.
Jake looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“Jake—”
“No, just—” He exhaled shakily. “I just want to understand.”
You were quiet for a long moment.
“I like you,” you said carefully. “But liking someone doesn’t always mean it’s right.”
His throat tightened. “Then why does it feel like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re everywhere,” he said. “Like I hear your voice even when you’re not talking. Like every night, I’m waiting for a call that might never come.”
Your breath hitched.
“I didn’t mean to do that to you.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and painful.
“You deserve someone, sure,” you said at last.
Jake laughed softly, bitterly. “I was sure.”
The words lingered.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“For what?”
“For not being able to give you what you want.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes burning.
“I never asked you to promise me forever,” he said. “I just wanted you to choose me.”
You didn’t answer.
“Say something,” he pleaded.
“I don’t want to lie,” you said quietly.
That was enough.
Jake nodded, even though you couldn’t see him.
“Then I think,” he said slowly, “we should stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Pretending we’re okay.”
Your voice broke. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You already are,” he replied gently.
Another long silence.
“I’ll always care about you,” you said.
“I know.”
“I hope you’ll be happy.”
He closed his eyes, a tear slipping free.
“I hope you sleep well tonight,” he said instead.
“…You too.”
The call ended.
Jake stared at his phone until the screen went dark.
The room felt colder without your voice. Empty in a way he didn’t know how to fix.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling as dawn crept in slowly, mercilessly.
Sleepless night. You’re on my mind. Tell me… will we survive?
But the question echoed unanswered;
And by morning, he knew the truth.
Some loves don’t survive.
They linger.
Sunghoon - NEXT TO ME, AGAIN
The rain slipped down the window of his apartment, thin fingers of water that clung like memories he couldn’t shake. Sunghoon stared at it, still in his coat, the weight of the night settling into his bones like an unwelcome guest.
It had started like every other argument: small and insignificant, but tidal beneath the surface. Words we didn’t mean but wished we could take back. And then silence, long, suffocating, unbearable.
His phone vibrated again.
“Can we talk?”
No name. Just those words blinking up at him like a warning.
He didn’t reply.
An hour later, there was a knock—three soft raps—familiar, unwilling to go away.
Sunghoon stood. For a moment, he didn’t think, didn’t breathe, didn’t care. But the knock came again. And again.
He opened the door.
There she was. Pale from the rain, eyes rimmed red like she’d been fighting tears for hours; maybe days. She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry. She just stood there, breath uneven.
“Please,” she said, voice thin like it might shatter. “Can we talk?”
He didn’t close the door. That was his first mistake.
Inside, she stood close, too close and not close enough. The air between them trembled.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” she whispered, eyes fixed on the floor. “I was scared. I… I didn’t know how to say it without hurting you.”
Sunghoon swallowed. Heat and heartbreak warred in his chest. “You didn’t say anything. You just left me.”
She flinched, but didn’t deny it.
“What did you want from me?” he asked, quietly. “Love? Comfort? Or just someone to come back to when you were lonely again?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she lifted her gaze; eyes shining with regret, but distant. Unreachable.
“I thought you cared,” she whispered. “I thought you’d stay.”
He closed his eyes. Too many times she’d left, too many times she’d come back. And every time, he had let her in. Every time, she’d hurt him again.
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asked, voice brittle.
“I don’t know,” she said, voice cracking. “I just, I keep hoping maybe this time it’ll be different.”
Sunghoon’s heart twisted painfully—because he knew that hope. He clung to it once too. But hope didn’t keep you from sleeping alone. Hope didn’t stop midnight texts when the world went quiet. Hope didn’t mend broken pieces.
He reached out—just once—brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek.
“I cared,” he said, voice breaking. “I still do. But I’m tired. I’m so tired of feeling the same thing every time you come back… next to me again.”
Her breath hitched. For a moment, he thought she might stay, that she might finally understand how fragile he had become.
But she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. And then she stepped back.
He watched her walk away, slowly, with no turning back.
When the door clicked shut, the sound weighed on him like a blow.
Sunghoon slid to the floor, shoulders trembling. The rain outside blurred against the glass. Inside, his quiet apartment swallowed him whole.
Minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell anymore.
His phone lit up again.
No name. Just one message:
“Are you okay?"
He didn’t answer.
The rain kept falling.
(Y/N’s POV)
The rain doesn’t stop.
I keep waiting for it to, like if the sound fades, the ache in my chest will quiet with it. It doesn’t. It just keeps tapping against the glass, steady and patient, like it knows I’m still awake. As you know, I’m still thinking about you.
I’m still sitting on the floor.
I don’t remember when my back slid against the wall, when my knees pulled in, when my hands started shaking. I only know that the space you left behind feels louder than any argument we ever had. Empty rooms shouldn’t echo this much.
I keep replaying the way you looked when you said sorry.
Not crying. Not desperate. Just… tired.
Maybe that’s what hurts the most. That you didn’t look like you were losing me, just like you were done trying to keep me.
I told myself I’d be stronger this time. That's when you came back. I wouldn’t have opened the door so easily. That I’d remember how it felt the last time you left, how I lay awake staring at my ceiling, wondering what I did wrong, wondering why loving you felt like something I had to earn over and over again.
But when I saw you standing there, soaked and quiet, I forgot all of it.
I always do.
Because part of me still believes that if I stay gentle enough, patient enough, you’ll choose me. That if I don’t ask for too much, you won’t run. That if I let you come back whenever you’re lonely, maybe one day you’ll stay when you’re not.
It’s pathetic.
I loved you like I was afraid of losing you, every second, every breath. And you loved me like I was something familiar. Comfortable. Temporary.
I told myself that was enough.
My phone is still lit beside me.
Your message stares back like it’s daring me to respond.
Are you okay?
I almost laugh. The sound catches in my throat instead.
How do I answer that?
Do I tell you that I feel hollow? That my chest feels too tight and too empty at the same time? I don’t know how many more times I can survive loving someone who only reaches for me when the world gets quiet.
Do I tell you that I still want you here, that if you knocked again, I’d probably open the door all over again?
That’s the scariest part.
I don’t trust myself anymore.
I scroll up through our messages. Little moments frozen in text—late-night jokes, apologies that meant less each time, promises we never kept. I search for the point where everything went wrong, like there’s a single message I can blame. Like it wasn’t a slow erosion. Like, I didn’t feel this coming.
You used to say my name like it meant something.
Somewhere along the way, it became a question. Then an excuse. Then something you only said when you needed comfort.
I press my phone to my chest, fingers curling around it like it might slip away, too.
Maybe you think you loved me.
Maybe in your own way, you did.
But love shouldn’t feel like waiting. It shouldn’t feel like silence stretched thin, like hoping someone chooses you tomorrow because they didn’t today.
I think about all the times you came back, broken, unsure, lonely how I held you like you might disappear if I didn’t. How I told myself this time is different while ignoring the way my heart flinched every time you pulled away.
I let you spin me in your lies because the truth hurt worse.
And now you’re gone again.
Not angrily. Not dramatically.
Just… gone.
My phone dims.
I don’t turn it back on.
Because if I reply, you might come back. And if you come back, I’ll let you stay. And if you wait, you’ll leave again. And I don’t think there’s anything left of me that can survive another goodbye.
So I sit there. In the quiet. In the rain.
Learning what it feels like to choose myself, even when it hurts more than choosing you ever did.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, and the apartment will still be empty. My chest will still ache. His name will still feel heavy on my tongue.
But you won’t be next to me again.
And somehow, that hurts worse than missing you ever did.
Sunoo - HOW WAS YOUR DAY?
He walked along the quiet street outside your apartment as the last light slipped away from the sky—pastel turning to gray—clutching his phone like it was a lifeline he’d thrown and now desperately needed back.
Seven messages. Unsent.
Five drafts. Never delivered.
His thumb hovered over the screen again. Words blurred against the fluttering in his chest: Hello… I’ve been on my own...
He forced himself to breathe.
One moment at a time.
You’d told him once—months ago—that healing wasn’t linear. That closure wasn’t a place you arrived at. It was a slow walk. Maybe even going in circles.
Right now, Sunoo felt stuck on the same step.
A soft vibration. Another text, his time from someone else.
You’ve moved on, haven’t you?
He read it.
He didn’t respond.
Inside your old café—the one with the big windows and mismatched chairs—you sat with someone new. His laugh sounded comfortable, easy. Warm, like sunlight on a late November afternoon.
Not like Sunoo’s, which had always been moonlit.
You asked him about his day.
He chose joy this time.
You laughed with him.
You didn’t think about Sunoo.
Sunoo stood at the curb, breath clouding in the chilly night air.
Without your love, but feeling strange,
The words he once sang to you now throbbed in his chest like broken glass.
He remembered how you used to watch him write lyrics on napkins,
how your shoulder had been the place he rested his tired head after long practice days,
how once, just once, you whispered his name in a room that was too quiet.
And then it was gone.
Ends don’t ever feel like endings in the moment.
They feel like doors gently closing.
Leaving echoes.
His phone lit up again.
Are you waiting for me yet again at the end to make amends?
Typed and deleted.
Typed and deleted.
Again and again, like fossilizing the same wound.
He should walk away.
He should let go.
He needed to move forward.
But his feet felt like anchors.
You stepped outside, coffee in hand.
The chill of the evening made you draw your jacket closer.
Your heart danced to an unfamiliar rhythm, one that didn’t carry his name.
You passed by him without recognizing his silhouette against the lamppost light.
Sunoo watched your eyes slide away from him,
and something inside him quietly shattered.
So he spoke into the air where you used to be:
“I hope your day was good,” he whispered.
“But I guess I’ll never know.”
And then he turned;
away from the street,
away from the memories,
away from you.
His footsteps were slow,
Yet final.
The phone in his pocket vibrated once more, unanswered, unread.
And somewhere on the sidewalk behind him, the echo of a question hung in the cold night:
So how was your day without me, love?
There was no answer.
Just silence.
(MIRROR POV)
You stepped inside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you. The warmth hit your skin, but it did nothing for the ache in your chest.
The street outside still smelled faintly of cold rain and asphalt. For a fleeting moment, you imagined someone standing there; someone who had once been your whole world.
Sunoo.
You didn’t recognize him at the time. Not really. Not in that silhouette under the lamppost, hunched as if the weight of the universe rested on his shoulders. But now, as you sat down with your coat still damp, the memory pressed against your ribs like a hand you couldn’t shake.
Your phone buzzed with a message. You froze.
It wasn’t from him.
You’ve moved on, haven’t you?
The words stung in a way you didn’t expect. Not because you were questioning your choice—you were confident—but because you realized, in that quiet moment, that someone out there still cared too much.
And maybe… maybe you hadn’t cared enough to notice.
You remembered the afternoons he spent tracing patterns on your hand with his thumb, humming little fragments of songs he hadn’t written down yet. You remembered laughing until your stomach hurt because he made everything feel lighter, brighter. Even the quiet ones, the ones where you’d both sit, breathing in the same space; were more alive than anything else in your life now.
And yet, life had a cruel way of moving forward. You had to.
But the image of him standing there, alone, watching you walk away, carved itself into your memory.
You grabbed your coat again and stepped outside, maybe to check the street, perhaps to feel the cold air. The sidewalk was empty.
No one under the lamppost. No footsteps echoing yours.
And yet, you could feel him.
So how was your day without me, love?
The question lingered in your mind, though it was never sent.
You wondered, briefly, if he had walked far enough to disappear from your life forever. If he’d stopped to fight for you, or if he’d given up quietly, like the ghost of someone you once loved.
You wanted to call him. You tried to run after him. But the words stuck, heavy in your throat.
Because some doors, once closed, never reopen.
And so, you turned back inside, leaving the street empty, leaving him unseen.
Somewhere out there, Sunoo walked in silence.
Somewhere in that silence, you existed in his thoughts, hauntingly.
And for a long time, the two of you would remain apart,
each carrying the echo of the other,
each asking the same impossible question in the cold dark:
So how was your day… without me?
The city had grown quiet by the time Sunoo’s footsteps carried him past the corners where you used to meet. The streetlights hummed softly, casting long shadows that stretched like memories. He walked slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, phone dead in his grip, lips moving silently as if speaking to you.
Hello… I’ve been on my own.
Across town, you did the same. Your coat wrapped tight around you, coffee cooling in your hand, and your eyes tracing the same empty sidewalks that once held him. You whispered to yourself in the dark:
I’ve been on my own, too.
He paused at the bridge where you had lingered together months ago, leaning against the railing, staring at the river like it could wash away the past. He thought of you there, hair catching the fading light, laughter spilling like water over rocks. The memory made his chest ache, and he gripped the railing harder.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, you leaned by your own window, tracing the patterns of the rain on the glass. You thought of him — the way he’d hum softly when he was nervous, the way his smile could make ordinary nights feel like something sacred. You wanted to call him. You didn’t.
Sunoo’s steps carried him past a café, the one with the big windows and mismatched chairs. Inside, a stranger laughed where he once had sat. The light glinted off your hair, now different, lighter. He froze for a moment, heart constricting, then turned away. He walked faster, trying to outrun the ache.
Simultaneously, you felt the same pang when someone brushed past you in the street, carrying the same quiet weight he always did. You turned your head instinctively, hoping, in that moment, it was him. But it wasn’t.
Night deepened. The city breathed around them, unaware of the two hearts carrying each other silently through parallel shadows.
Sunoo whispered into the dark, voice trembling, So how was your day without me, love?
And somewhere across the quiet city, you whispered the same question, almost on instinct: So how was your day… without me?
Neither of you heard the other. Neither of you would.
The moon climbed high, casting its silver light over streets, bridges, and rooftops. Two people, so close in space yet infinitely distant in fate, wandered through the night carrying memories, regrets, and the soft echo of each other’s absence.
No doors reopened. No footsteps converged.
Only silence, only the quiet heartbeat of someone who once mattered more than words could hold.
And in that silence, the final note lingered:
You moved on. I stayed behind. And yet… we were always together in the spaces between.
Jungwon - end credits
He hadn’t slept in days. Not really. The bed felt too big without you, but small enough to trap him in memories. He runs a hand over the pillow, the slight indent you left still there, like a fingerprint pressed into his chest.
He whispers your name softly. “Y/N…”
No answer.
Not that there would be.
The next morning, he finds your hoodie lying on the chair. He remembers how you wore it to hide your shyness, how it smelled like faint coffee and your shampoo. He holds it to his face, breath catching.
“You’re really gone, huh?”
The room is still. Only the sunlight crawling across the floor responds, indifferent.
He remembers that day you left.
“Jungwon…” you had said, voice tight. “I… I don’t know how to stay. I can’t—”
“I’ll wait,” he interrupted softly, almost pleading. “No matter how long, I’ll wait for you.”
You didn’t smile. You never did. You just nodded and walked away.
And he had let you go. Or maybe he had just… let himself hope.
Now, weeks later, he sits in the same café you loved. The barista had asked if he wanted your usual, and he had nodded, not thinking. Now the latte sits untouched.
He watches couples laugh across the room. His chest tightens.
He doesn’t even know if he wants to cry.
A soft voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Jungwon?”
He freezes. His stomach drops. He’s sure it’s a trick of his imagination, a cruel hallucination.
“I… I just saw you, and—”
But it’s not you. Just a stranger. And he shakes his head, too numb to speak, letting the voice fade into the hum of the café.
He swallows hard. That was his life now: echoes, shadows, memories.
Back home, he opens your last letter. It’s the one you wrote the night before leaving.
“I hope you understand someday. I didn’t mean to hurt you… But I have to go.”
His fingers tremble as he folds the paper against his chest.
“I do understand,” he whispers. “I just… wish I didn’t.”
A tear slides down his cheek. Then another.
Days pass. He walks through the city streets alone, past the places you’d been together, each corner a memory. He talks to himself, whispers your name in empty hallways.
He tries to reach out once. He types a message, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes it.
He can’t do it. Can’t reach for someone who doesn’t want to be found.
One night, he finds himself on the rooftop where you used to sit together. The city stretches below him, alive and indifferent.
“I waited for you,” he says into the wind. “I’m still waiting. Always.”
A gust of cold air brushes his face. He shivers. The hoodie is clutched tightly to his chest.
His phone vibrates. He looks at it with hope.
It’s not you, just a notification.
He sits down, shoulders slumping. He looks over the edge at the city lights. They twinkle like they’re mocking him.
“I wanted to be your end credits,” he whispers. “But… I guess I’m… background music.”
He stays there until the city sleeps. Until his body aches from standing. Until the quiet becomes unbearable.
And in that stillness, he realizes the truth he’s been denying:
You won’t come back.
He closes his eyes.
And for the first time in weeks, he lets himself fall apart.
The next morning, he doesn’t answer anyone’s calls. His friends knock on the door, worry in their eyes, but he doesn’t respond.
He’s gone.
Just like you.
A note is left behind on the table, in his familiar handwriting:
“I waited too long. And now… I don’t think I can wait anymore.”
The world continues around him, unaware.
And Jungwon? He’s finally… silent.
(EXPANDED MEMORY-DRIVEN VERSION)
He walks through the empty streets at night, the city lights blurred in the rain. Every puddle reflects a memory he wishes he could step into, and forget at the same time.
The first memory comes unbidden:
“You’re holding it wrong,” you laughed, tossing the hoodie over his shoulder.
He had frowned, stubborn. “I’m fine, I can manage it myself.”
“No, let me help,” you insisted, your fingers brushing his as you corrected the knot. His chest had warmed inexplicably. He remembered thinking: I could stay like this forever.
But forever didn’t exist.
Another memory, so vivid it makes his stomach twist:
You had been sitting by the window in the café, elbows on the table, chin in your hands. Rain pattered outside.
“Jungwon, do you think people can really wait for someone? And it… actually matters?”
He had looked at you, eyes serious, heart heavy. “I think… I could. For you.”
You had smiled faintly, the way someone does when they know they have to leave soon. “I hope you never have to.”
He hadn’t understood then.
And then, the little, quiet moments he had tried to treasure:
Walking home together in silence, fingers brushing. The way you hummed absentmindedly while cooking instant ramen. The late nights you stayed up talking about dreams that weren’t yet yours. The hoodie you left behind after staying for “just a minute” and never picking it up again.
All these small pieces of you had become his whole world.
Back in the present, Jungwon stops in the middle of a street. The neon lights reflect off his wet hair. He pulls his hoodie closer, the fabric heavy with your lingering scent.
He whispers: “I thought… I could wait forever. I thought… I could be enough.”
But the cold night answers only with silence.
He remembers the day you left:
Your hands trembled as you tried to explain. “I have to go. I… I can’t stay.”
He wanted to argue. To pull you close and say, Don’t. Please don’t leave me like this.
Instead, he said softly: “I’ll wait.”
A tear slid down your cheek. You smiled faintly through it, shaking your head. “You shouldn’t.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.
And that was his first, silent heartbreak.
Weeks turned into months. He walked familiar streets, revisited favourite cafés, and pressed his fingers against windowpanes as if touching you could bring you back.
Sometimes he thought he saw your silhouette in a crowd. He would freeze, heart hammering, only for it to vanish before he could reach you.
One night, he returns to the rooftop you loved. Rain slicks the metal rail, cold biting at his hands. The city stretches endlessly below, indifferent.
He whispers to the wind, “I’m still here. Waiting. Always.”
A memory drifts up:
You had leaned against him on this very rooftop, arms crossed, looking at the same city lights. “Promise me something,” you had said.
“Anything,” he’d replied.
“Promise you’ll be happy… even if I’m not there.”
He had promised. But happiness now felt impossible.
He pulls out his phone. He types a message: “I miss you. Come back.”
He deletes it. Over and over.
Finally, he whispers, “I can’t. You… you don’t want me to.”
The final memory cuts sharpest:
Your hand leaving his hand in the doorway, your suitcase rolling softly over the floor. The light from the hall fell across your face just right, and he saw the faintest quiver of your lips.
“Goodbye, Jungwon,” you had said, voice breaking.
He had stayed silent, heart shattering, letting you go.
Present-day Jungwon sits on the rooftop edge. The rain drips down his hair, mixing with tears. He clutches your hoodie to his chest.
The wind carries your laugh, your voice, your memory; but it isn’t real.
“I waited too long,” he whispers. “And now… I can’t anymore.”
He lets the hoodie slip from his grasp. It flutters into the night, vanishing into the darkness.
The city lights gleam below, oblivious.
Jungwon stands, staring into the endless void. A single, quiet breath escapes him.
And then, he steps back from the edge.
Not for hope. Not for courage.
But because the world will continue without him noticing.
He sits down instead, letting the rain soak him thoroughly. He closes his eyes.
And for the first time in months, he feels the full weight of it:
You are gone. And he will never see you again.
The wind picks up, carrying the last pieces of his heart away, scattering them across the city.
And Jungwon… finally, painfully, surrenders.
(Y/N’S POV)
I never meant to hurt him.
I never meant to leave.
But life… life doesn’t wait, and neither did I.
I walk through the streets we used to share, careful not to let him see me. Careful to stay in the shadows. I’ve kept my distance, because seeing him… it would be too much. Too much to admit that my leaving tore him apart in ways I can’t fix.
And yet, I watch him. From a corner of the café, from across the street, sometimes from the rooftop. Always alone. Always quiet. Always… waiting.
He doesn’t know I’m here. He hasn’t noticed me in months. And yet… there’s a weight in the way he moves, a tension in his shoulders, a hollow in his chest that wasn’t there before.
It’s my fault.
I remember the night I left, his soft, almost pleading voice, promising he would wait. I nodded, whispered something meaningless, and walked away. I didn’t realize then that I was handing him a lifetime of quiet pain.
And now I see it.
The way he pauses in a doorway, as if expecting me to appear.
The way he holds onto that hoodie, though it no longer carries my scent.
The way his eyes flicker to the rain, to the empty streets, to the city that goes on around him without him.
I watch as he sits on the rooftop, rain dripping down his hair, soaked to the bone. His hand rests on the railing, but he doesn’t move. Not for anyone. Not even for me.
And my chest tightens.
I want to call out to him. I want to scream that I’m here, that I never stopped thinking of him, that I—
But I can’t.
Because life has its rules. Because some pain isn’t meant to be soothed. Because he promised himself he would wait… and I can’t take that away.
So I watch, hidden behind the veil of distance. And I see him release everything he’s been clutching—the hoodie slipping into the night, disappearing into darkness—the small, quiet gesture of surrender.
I see him sit down, letting the rain soak through, finally allowing the grief to take him fully. And I know that he has given up hope.
Not on life. Not exactly. But on me. On us. On what could have been.
I blink back tears as I whisper into the wind, knowing he cannot hear me:
I’m so sorry, Jungwon. I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you.
And I walk away, leaving him alone on the rooftop, silent, broken, waiting for a future that will never come.
The city lights glimmer below, indifferent, just as they were for him.
And I realize, with a hollow ache that will never leave me: some hearts love quietly, endlessly… and are never seen.
And some people leave, carrying a piece of that love with them, unaware they’ve left it behind.
Ni-ki - your wedding
Rain fell in quiet pulses against the café window, every drop like a footstep toward an ending Ni‑ki already felt in his chest. He sat alone at the small table by the glass, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of black coffee, eyes trained on a world that used to be his, and the girl who wasn’t supposed to belong to it anymore.
He’d seen her first from across the street.
Her laugh bounced off the brick walls like sunshine — warm, familiar, and utterly wrong for today.
She wasn’t alone.
His breath caught, throat tightening with a familiarity he tried to forget but couldn’t. The way her hair fell, the tilt of her head when she smiled up at him… it wasn’t his smile anymore.
Ni‑ki pressed his lips together. Two, three beats. He forced himself to keep watching.
They walked side by side, and her hand brushed against his—just a little—but enough to make something inside him break in slow motion.
He’d memorized the shape of their palms intertwined like a promise he thought he’d kept. What a joke that was now.
A memory stabbed through his ribs — her whisper in the dead of night: “You made me feel alive.”
He’d given her everything he had: his laugh, his late‑night thoughts, his favourite T‑shirt she stole once and actually returned, folded neatly, with a small flower tucked in the pocket.
She had been his light.
Now, she belonged to someone else.
Ni‑ki’s phone buzzed, a message he didn’t open. A text from her that he never wanted to see again. He didn’t have to read it to know she was saying the same thing her eyes had already told him.
“I’m happy.”
He should’ve celebrated. He really should have.
But all he felt was the echo of her smile that used to be his.
“Can I get another coffee?” he asked, voice low when the barista approached, eyes glazed, far away. The barista nodded kindly. It wasn’t fair to burden her with eyes that had seen too much hurt already.
Ni‑ki looked back at the street for one last time.
She turned. Not toward him, toward the new arms that held her like she was home. Maybe she was.
A taxi splashed through a puddle, blurring its shape. A moment lost in the static of rain and passing cars.
Ni‑ki swallowed past the lump in his throat, breath trembling. He should move—he should leave—but his feet were glued to the cracked tiles of that café floor, clinging to the last thread of something that had already slipped away.
He closed his eyes, imagining she was still his , that the memories hadn’t slipped into someone else’s hands, that her laugh still belonged to him.
When he opened them again, people were still walking, cars still humming, rain still falling, indifferent to his unravelling.
He didn’t chase her.
Not today.
Not anymore.
He let her walk into someone else’s future while he stayed in the quiet ruins of his memories, hands shaking as he wrapped them around the coffee cup again, this time for warmth, not comfort.
Because some endings aren’t loud.
They’re just empty.
And Ni‑ki stayed there, letting the ache settle, as long as she was happy without him.
(Y/N’s Side)
The wedding hall was glowing under soft golden lights, but her heart felt like frozen glass. She smiled politely at everyone, accepting congratulations, answering questions, but every You look beautiful pierced her chest with a tiny, invisible knife.
She should’ve felt complete, should’ve felt the joy of this new life, this new love. But instead… every laugh, every clasped hand, every fleeting brush of a shoulder reminded her of someone else.
Ni‑ki.
She had thought she’d escaped him. That the distance, the months, the careful avoidance of his messages would make the ache fade.
But today, standing in the dress she had chosen without him, hearing vows she had practiced with another, she realized: nothing could erase him from her.
She remembered the nights he had held her close, the small touches that made her heart race, the way he had lit up even the darkest corners of her mind.
And now… she was marrying someone else.
The ceremony ended. Guests cheered. Flashes of cameras burst around her. Everyone was smiling, everyone except her.
She looked toward the window and—for a split second—saw him.
Ni‑ki. Standing across the street, the rain is beginning to fall again. His head tilted slightly, eyes locked on her. Not moving. Not shouting. Not even waving. Just… looking.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to run to him. She tried to stop the ceremony, throw the dress aside, tell him he’d always been the one. But she couldn’t.
She couldn’t.
She was already bound by vows, by expectations, by everyone who had counted on her choosing this life. And yet, in her chest, the part that had always been his screamed.
As she turned back to the groom—his hand warm in hers, a smile forced onto his lips—she felt something fracture altogether.
A thought she couldn’t swallow crept in:
Did he hate me for leaving him? Or did he blame himself?
She realized with a cold shock: she didn’t know if she could ever forgive herself. She had traded love for safety, security, the idea of a perfect life, and in doing so, had left the one person who had loved her without conditions.
The reception began. Music played. Glasses clinked. Ni‑ki didn’t move. He just watched, a shadow in the drizzle outside.
And then she saw it.
A single tear slides down his cheek.
Her own chest tightened so violently she could barely breathe. She wanted to run — to stop him from leaving, stop herself from marrying someone who could never be him — but it was too late. She had already made her choice.
The wedding march continued inside. Laughter, applause, congratulations…
And outside, Ni‑ki turned away, disappearing into the rain.
Y/N’s hand trembled in her husband’s grasp. She forced another smile, but inside, she felt hollow.
Because for the first time in her life, she understood something terrible:
Some loves don’t get happy endings. Not hers. Not his. Not ever.
And in that moment, she wished desperately that someone, anyone, could stop the clock and undo this day.
But there was no undoing it.
No Ni‑ki. No second chance. Just the echo of what had been.
And she cried quietly, the kind of cry that no one sees, the one that leaves your soul empty, forever haunted by a love you could never truly have.
Copyright 2026 - present © hazelira all rights reserved. All writing here is fiction & not in any association with characters mentioned.
